


o war, thou son of hell

by Maximen (Hyenada)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, M/M, Non-Chronological One Shots, Warnings for General Uncomfortable Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-03 14:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12750459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyenada/pseuds/Maximen
Summary: It isn't their war to win. It never was.(or, daniel/joshua snippets because it's NEEDED)non-compliant companion w/:Longest Mile of Nowhere





	1. catastrophe

 

 

 

Once a time ago, there had been a saying; of how a man may not be interested in war, but it may be most certainly interested in him. Bolshevik, he thinks, through the pain. Joshua Graham's memory for quotations and Pre-War media where firmly minimal outside what was deemed by their standards to be acceptable, and it had only diminished since. He dismisses the thought as he discards the soiled bandaging in his hands, and tries not to think of the rainwater mixing with blood on the burning remnants of what was ―  _once! some ugly thing coils in his chest_  ― home.

He shifts against the ground, takes the pale arch of Daniel's dislocated thumb as gently as he can between three bandaged fingers and examines the damage. There's sediment jammed in the crevices between the boy's knuckles, ugly black marks and, yes, blood where there ought to be not. More than just blood, on this hand. Why is it always splinters? He asks himself, but says aloud: "I'm going to have to set this."

The boy does not respond at all, visually, to what Joshua has to say on the matter. He sits there, broader than he should be and taller than he last was, but still somehow entirely smaller and vulnerable, somehow simultaneously younger and older in one, grievous whole, and says nothing. Does nothing. Joshua actually checks to see if he is still breathing in a fit of uncharacteristic fear.

He is. Of course, he is. Joshua exhales again too, hisses out from between his teeth in the same breath.

He wants to shake the boy. He wants to fight, make right this heinous wrong. Come on, he wants to say, I'll be your son of Abinoam, sent on foot into the valley, strike them in the temples and let them perish for the evil they have done in the sight of the Lord. He wants to haul Daniel up and slap his handgun back into his hands and make them repent, boy,  _make them pay_ _―_ but they number no more than forty. Fifteen men, more women and children than that of God's warriors. His Dead Horses are still in pursuit.

And then there is the boy, who flinches when Joshua's hand comes too close to the sturdy flesh of his shoulder, twenty-nine and somehow made responsible for them all. Distracted, afflicted, a soul full of troubles and a mind shadowed by loss.

" _Daniel_." Joshua very nearly pleads.

"Mn?"

He's staring at something that only he can see, or maybe nothing at all. Joshua sincerely hopes for the latter, assesses the damage again and determines that, given the circumstances, it could be far, far worse.

They're a people who war is fond of, Joshua sighs. "Very well, then."

Daniel is a better surgeon than he is a patient. Despite his distraction, he recoils and grumbles when the pain penetrates the fog of trauma, clenches his hands and wrenches his wrists away until Joshua's frustration ― at everything, its always at everything else; for the love that all is holy he knows that he can't stay angry at this one ― forces him to pin each of the boy's forearms between his knee and spare hand, one at a time. It lasts until Joshua fishes out a particularly stubborn wedge of glass and the instant snag of pain has Daniel cascading back into awareness.

There, Joshua thinks, it is. There's that killer's instinct. It flairs up before the boy's good, upright character wrestles back control and the gritty, awful creature of instinct is pushed back into the depths where it belongs. It's in the flash of nondirectional fury and the clenched teeth. Then the boy relaxes, the rage vanishes.

"Ow." Daniel turns up both palms and looks down at the red, sticky gashes, and blinks as if he can't quite work out what he is seeing.

"I'm sorry," Joshua says. Hopefully, the stimulation of conversation will keep him grounded. Which isn't to say he isn't. Sorry, that is. He's sorry for many a sordid thing. "That looked like it hurt."

There is a moment of silence, dragging and thick, which somehow deafens the noise of screaming children and nervous, upset chatter of the remaining survivors behind them. Joshua is considering for a moment wherever to part with some of his own supplies to put a bandage on the boy's wounds when the object of his tenacious care suddenly laughs, and surprise forces Joshua's eyes up from Daniel's mangled hands to his face.

"This is all in reverse," the boy says, voice tight and hysterical and above all, very very quiet.

Joshua is about to ask for clarification to what he initially thought was clearly a product of shock when he remembers, clarity settling over him like a cool river of understanding. Of course. How long ago was it really? That lone stretch UT-36 and a chance encounter that most certainly saved his life. My, Joshua marvels, how things have changed since then. He grasps Daniel on the shoulder, hard enough for his burned skin to smart and stands. His knees protest at the effort.

"I dare say I've learned a thing or two from your impeccable example," he says dryly, because Daniel appreciates humour, even if there is not much of a place for jokes at this moment. If it gets him talking... "How are you feeling?"

"Out of reach." Is Daniel's hesitant, lingering answer. There is little he can do about it, either way; he knows from bitter experience, but Joshua takes comfort in the fact that Daniel's voice has grown more steady and less uncertain. Good.

"That's... fine," and Joshua expects to feel the disgust at such an outright lie, but instead, it squirms into something more akin to a compromise. They both feel just as wrong. "We need to move out, and soon. If we can get to Dead Horse Point, our people will be safe there. We can regroup."

 _And counterattack_ , he leaves unsaid. While it is everything he wants to do in his heart, he cannot rationalize it now, not like this. He pushes the thought away.

Joshua knows. It has to come from Daniel. There are... conventions, he left behind all those years ago. Rules and unspoken expectations that bind the New Canaanites together not just as a people but as an institution and, yes, it has to come from Daniel. It's just the way things work. It's bloodline, reputation and commitment and most of all, the nature of one's past precedents.

"Oh. Okay." There is no change in Daniel's posture but it's all in the eyes, and Joshua rests the palm of his hand against the back of the boy's neck just before he can glaze over.

He grits it out more harshly than he intended. "Daniel. Get back here."

Daniel blinks, coming back to with the contact, and grunts. "Yes." He nods and gets up on to his feet, very nearly overbalances, but centres himself, eventually.

He breathes in. Then he pitches both of his shoulders back, hands curling in on themselves.

"Yes, I'll- uh, inform them. We've got a long road ahead of us."

As Daniel makes his way over toward his people, he looks at the shape of the boy's shoulders and that weird, insistent lick that makes his hairline on the nape of his neck curl over to the left, only it's it's original brown instead of white with age, and Daniel is shorter than the Bishop by at least half a foot, if just as horizontally proportioned. The Burned Man growls and flinches back from the association. Joshua Graham just sighs. He settles his handgun, gestures for the few Dead Horses stood nearby.

A very long road indeed, he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ew, so these are just random ficlets of mine that don't really belong in Longest Mile of Nowhere. Same premise, only where the latter is an actual story with an actual plan, this is more vauge and more about exploring the pitifully absent relationship between Joshua and his smol missionary friend.
> 
> word of warning, this is going to contain a whole lotta' things including and not limited to: religious borderline fanaticism (not from the characters themselves per se but from the New Canaanites as a generalized whole), injury, ptsd-related symptoms and general trauma, as well as the usual Fallout cripe. After what these two have gone through, I dare say neither of them have been left unscathed.
> 
> if you want to suggest a prompt or whatever you can find my [Tumblr](https://maximenheyenadr.tumblr.com/) page. send me an ask or whatever.


	2. onset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> every conflict has to start somewhere

 

 

Four weeks in, Daniel gets a thorough re-introduction to Zion's climate when it suddenly and furiously rains for a solid four days straight.

This, he is used to. Fall was always the better part of the year for the tribals, ordinarily; drier and all around cooler and that made it easier to travel, but the weather was always unpredictable, and there was always a chance of upheaval. It was a well-proven fact when it came to the post-war environment. It was inconsistent at best, and it never did anything by halves.

Indeed, three days in, stuck at the Dead Horses camp in the eastern end of the park because he knew far better than to risk any sort of travel in this weather, Daniel was starting to get annoyed. It wasn't the weather itself that bugged him -- that was nothing, rain was rain, and while it existed on a level that merited concern, what with flash flooding and flow rates and other miscellaneous specifics, he could handle it. He'd been on the receiving end of many a soaking in his time. It was uncomfortable but not severe. No, it was the added _complexities_ which were starting to get to him.

Namely, the fact that there was only one relative "indoor" space away from the constant rain, and that said space was always, often than not, occupied. 

By Joshua sodding Graham, no less. 

Graham, who by all accounts, Daniel should be as far away from as possible so they could both come to terms with the recent fallout. Who Daniel needed space from. Who, also, was discouraged from going out unless it was deemed necessary because he had to keep dry as much as possible and therefore was always _right there_ whenever Daniel step foot in that damnable cave. 

The very same man Daniel had violently disagreed with not more than two days ago.

They had been in an unspoken stalemate ever since. Which was uncharacteristic, as far as they went. Daniel does not know what Joshua is holding back for, but he, at least, couldn't bring himself to get angry again. He was too tired for that. Too tired and too irritable and, perhaps most of all, too surprised at the outcome to want to even try. 

Daniel had never been an angry man; never growing up, never as a young man, and even after the, ah, accident, he had remained cordial. He has a lot to be angry about, he supposes, but he'd never embraced it. Never felt the need to. Never really wanted to. And it had -- _has_ , he amended. He wouldn't change his conduct, not that easy and not for... _this_ , of all things -- been his better of qualities. How many times had he been told that, over the years? How many times had Mordecai come down from one of his easily provoked rages and lamented about Daniel's gracious character compared to his own?

No, Daniel had never made a habit of getting angry. So it disturbs him on a fairly personal level to discover that it got him what he wanted. Namely, that getting angry actually made Joshua step back and coincide where everything else failed.

He wonders if this is going to be a developing thing. As he moves the white pawn on the chess board left on the -- shockingly, unoccupied -- work table, Daniel momentarily considers moving off up into the canyon, weather be damned. He needs time to think, come up with some sort of permanent decision. Decompress, too, he supposes. He feels like he's on a hair trigger. It would be better to do that back in the Sorrows camp, where he had space, his usual haunts.

"Again?"

Joshua is abruptly there, between one heartbeat and the next, and Daniel panics to such an extent that his handgun just about barely stays inside its holster. The older of the two flips two bandaged hands up in response, an easy, thinkless gesture that is more for Daniel's benefit than his own.

"It worked last time." Daniel grits out through the immediate and suffocating tide of stress, attempting to preserve dignity, where instead he wants to demand  _don't you bloody know better?_

Even while acceptable under the circumstances, Daniel finds the motion unspeakably rude. _Language!_ A haunting voice, not his own, snaps in the back of his mind and Daniel swallows, reminiscing.

Graham at least seems to recognise his failings, which probably means it's written all over Daniel's face and ergo, very, very obvious. The Malpais Legate was a creature of stealth, of course, and Joshua Graham has not completely abandoned the habits of the past thirty or so years. He does it without thinking. Though he had the common courtesy to look apologetic.

"Ah," Graham notes, diverting the issue, which really -- what else could he do? They don't talk about it -- about anything -- unless it's important. There's too much pain between them for it to be convenient. 

The thought makes Daniel momentarily disgusted with himself. As Graham begins stripping away the layers of wet bandage from his head and shoulders, he turns around so that he's facing the board and nothing else, just a piece of brown, sandy ground and the well-worn wood of Joshua's workbench, more out of politeness than anything else. He listens out for the noises Graham cannot truly stifle, which he knew to be easier than listening for more regular humanlike sounds. Ceramic against ceramic when he goes to put on fresh bandages, the very slight shift of kelver weave against the back of Graham's shirt when he bends. A very, haunting and achingly familiar clank of a handgun in its restraints, very slight, almost not there at all, under the ringing and the beat of rain.

This time, he senses Joshua move closer to reach across the table and flick through the same opening move from before, three days ago, as he sits himself down to do... whatever it is he does. Having someone that close, especially where he can't see them, was uncomfortable but it didn't Daniel make him panic, either. It's an improvement over the last few days, he decides.

And that's it. Daniel wanders off to re-organize his supplies, to occupy himself for an hour or two, and Joshua returns to his own, steady task. A few of the tribals, Dead Horses, have medical concerns; Daniel busies himself with those and works on his language skills in the midterm, determines he needs to brush up on his German. Every time he passes through, there is a change on the board, all identical and familiar until he chooses to move a pawn up to d3 and build a brief, diagonal wall of white little pieces.

"I'm not angry," Daniel says, eventually, when he finally enters again with the intention of staying in for the evening, utterly soaked through.

Graham studies the game with evident incuriosity. "I know," he replies, before moving a knight up to c6.

"In any case I... regret, the way I handled the issue." _We haven't handled anything,_ Daniel thinks, chest tight. If anything the problem has only just surfaced. Graham gives him a long, considering look -- he knows, too. "That wasn't right of me."

"Oh, don't you worry. Impoliteness is hardly the worst we've suffered." Graham points out. It's true, of course, but it's also patronising and irritating, but when Daniel scowls the man merely sighs, slow and soft as though engaging with an elegant impossibility. Daniel arches an eyebrow. 

"No," Daniel agrees, reaching a hand up to smooth out the back of his collar, struggling for patience. He's been operating on low sleep for days. The edges of his vision are starting to blur together. He blinks. "No, I guess that is true."

He moves his right bishop up a square, and Graham adds, even as he moves his own bishop to e7, "You haven't changed your mind."

Daniel tenses at that. He can't help himself, but he does immediately make himself relax afterwards, slowly and methodically, until his shoulders and back have eased, lacing both hands at the back of his head. He considers the board because he hates eye contact and with Graham, there is nowhere else to look.

 _No._ That is the only answer he can give and he knows it. He hasn't changed his mind, and he won't, not unless it becomes an impossibility. But Graham does not operate on that level of thinking; he's a man of certainties, hard decisions, and if Daniel cannot provide a concrete contrary move, then he won't let up and he certainly won't see reason. Daniel is very much the same, if for different reasons.

He thinks of the Sorrows, for a split, agonizing moment and shakes his head.

They have fought over things before, of course. That brief spat when Daniel first made the decision to return to Zion had been the most severe, but Daniel won out, in the end. Graham had been onside once it became apparent that the White Legs were interested in disabling the New Canaanite's entire power base, as opposed to just killing off their population. Anything to get into the Legion. Now the unanimity has been broken again, only this time, Daniel isn't pulling back. There had been a time, long ago, where Daniel had been younger and wary of any transgress against the tradition of thy elders, so to speak -- agreed with Graham because he was older and that was his place as the younger.

But that was long ago, and Daniel has newer, more relevant and serious obligations to more people than just himself and his conduct.

Sure enough, Graham sucks in an irritable breath at the unspoken answer, but contrary to his expectations, he doesn't say anything. Barely even moves. Daniel readies himself for a fairly unproductive night with an itch between his shoulders and a knawing worry that won't ease away.

No, he's not angry. Daniel checkmates him later on in the evening with his bishop, just before he intends to lie down and get maybe an hour or two of sleep -- from where he'll likely end up getting up again, pacing the cramped space until Joshua hauls himself up as well, because misery apparently just loves company. Before Daniel remembers the cruel, blessed twist of fortune that dictates why none of the Sorrows do the same. Why none of them have to. 

Why none of them, God willing, ever will.

No, no. He's not angry, Daniel knows. He's determined.

He can't help but wonder which one is worse.


	3. domestic

 

 

 

Joshua Graham was in a bad mood.

Such was not a rare phenomenon. The man's natural temperament was prone to episodes of easily predisposed irritation, almost permanently aggravated by experiences both of the past and the present, edged by persistent pain and, perhaps most directly, goaded on his present company, which by virtue of sheer age difference, was more... prominent than usual. Indeed, where Joshua Graham was in a characteristically foul mood -- Daniel, by comparison, was practically overjoyed. 

Granted, Joshua's current state was little more than an undercurrent of annoyance at the universe in general. Harmless. It was much less severe than his usual swings of temperament -- but, Daniel being Daniel, acutely aware of the other man's moods and sympathetic to a fault, it was a relentlessly obvious hint. A delicate imperfection in the former Legate's demeanour, a subtle riptide of annoyance in the man's usually calm sea of serenity, one that was all game for the younger New Canaanite's attention. 

Or, more accurately, it was game for the missionary's ironic wit. It took Daniel's notice immediately and was far, far too tempting of a target to let up on.

He took one look at Joshua's immediate surroundings and decided to hit straight for the central nerve point. He was feeling brave today. Or maybe just straight up insane.

"You know, you oughta' start working around the metaphorical house a little more," he regarded a pile of broken weaponry off to one side with an idle flip of the hand. "You're getting lazy."

Sure enough, Joshua brought his head up and stared right at him, cerulean eyes unblinking, as if Daniel had just walked up and insulted him in Creole -- which he could do, but remained from doing so for his own personal safety. Daniel did not turn his own head to make eye contact. Instead, he merely grimaced at the man's cluttered worktables and made an exaggerated face.

"Well. You have been enabling me." Was the man's response, a weak, flimsy parry that was hurriedly made and was in reference to a more recent incident that was, decidedly, not Daniel's fault. It was solely at the feet of Joshua himself, who now had six new sets of stitches and a firm warning to never get on the wrong side of a thicket of needle bushes ever again.

And if the delayed jaw clench was any indication, Joshua remembered it, too.

Daniel merely grinned.

Truth be told, he was all too aware that Joshua kept his things cleaner than most. Graham was obsessive in his need for regimented order. Granted, Daniel shared similar anxieties, but he was more concerned with matters involving medical sanitation. Sterilization, clean instruments and medical equipment -- clean hands. 

Joshua Graham was the only man he knew who managed to keep a sodding dirt floor spotless.

But if he didn't keep Joshua on his toes, who would?

Who else indeed.

"Alright'," Daniel shrugged and grabbed the nearest semi-out of place thing he could find -- an ammunition box (of course) and let it drop straight onto the older man's knees. "I'm done enabling you now. You're very welcome."

"I think you're overestimating my appreciation," Joshua grumbled. "And it was fine the way it was."

"Tell that to my mother," Daniel quipped as he demurely raised one box over his shoulder. He'd recently regained his previous fighting weight, what with the semi-regular meals and more frequent exercise. He is certain that Joshua had noticed. "She'd have your ear for sure. I understand if it's difficult, what, with your advanced age and all-"

Joshua nearly stood up. "Funny," he hissed under his breath. "You know, Peter had a thing or two to say about so-called witticism."

"God, I recall, has a funny sense of humour." Daniel grunted. "And how dare you. I'm an utter delight." He caught the movement before Joshua did, by virtue of position. "Right, Follows-Chalk?"

The young tribal blinked wide and unsure at both of them, caught mid-step to meet an annoyed looking war chieftain and a beaming New Canaanite elder. The poor thing let out a worried breath between his teeth.

"Yes?" He guessed, uncertain.

" _See_." Daniel regarded Joshua with an aimless shrug. "At least I have more charm than a constipated yao-guai." 

Joshua nearly made a move to grab him. It was in the arms, the way his fingers clenched. Some sensible part of Daniel's brain reminded him that it was unlikely, from this distance, that he could outrun the older man. The giddy part of Daniel's mind, unfortunately, made a point to dismiss the concern.

"I think we could both appreciate some peace and quiet right now." The former Legate said instead, mindful of the fact that Follows-Chalk was laying out tea things, tribal-ware with painted figures, made from clay, and easily breakable.

Daniel merely began taking the box over to where he knew Joshua stored his ammunition, voice levelling out into the same easy drawl he adopted when speaking to tribals who did not understand English, his expression smoothing out into limpid calm. "That's not what you said last night." 

"I said a lot of things," Joshua grumbled, annoyed. 

"Shouted a few things, too," Daniel replied innocently, in afterthought, and instantaneously burst into a fit of laughter when he overheard Graham choke on his tea.

Context was a fickle thing, he decided, as he beat a hasty retreat.

Especially once it became apparent that, no, he could not outrun Joshua Graham, and certainly not from this distance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret nothing


End file.
